Draco shifted in his sleep, one
arm stretched possessively across Harry's chest. The move startled
Harry awake and he blushed to realize that he and his lover were
still intimately entangled. A cautionary attempt to move made him
aware of the cold liquid on his stomach and thighs. Carefully
backing away so that Draco slipped out of him, he reached for the
cloth kept for such occasions on the bedside table, dampening it
with water poured from a porcelain ewer. His skin prickled at the
chilly bath. Harry eyed the sleeping man beside him, hesitating
before cleaning his companion as well, watching him shrink from his
touch. Setting the cloth aside he adjusted the covers, watching the
early morning light sweep across the slumbering form.
He was leaving today. It could no
longer be postponed. The last week had passed in a blur for Harry.
He couldn't remember ever being so happy, or satisfied, in all
manners of speaking. Draco was an incredible lover, and had the good
grace to not make him feel like a child in his innocence—which was
quickly becoming a dim memory. The vividness of Draco encompassed
everything.
The object of his musings awoke,
stretching languidly, arms tightening around Harry's chest. "Must
you really go today?" he murmured, the dawn light making his eyes
look grey and mysterious, like clouds on the horizon, promising an
impending storm. He shifted, muscles rippling beneath flawless skin.
Harry could now properly appreciate the strength contained in that
lithe body. Compared to the delicate form that clung so sensuously
to him, he felt poorly constructed: too broad, too muscled, too
flawed. He rubbed the scar on his forehead, his constant reminder of
his own imperfection, and smoothed the cornsilk strands of hair from
Draco's forehead, placing a reverent kiss there before nodding.
"Ron will be sending out a search
party if I fail to appear at the Burrow on schedule, more than
likely demanding to know what you've done with my body."
A lecherous grin appeared on
Malfoy's face. "I had no idea Weasley had such a kinky side. Will
you regale him with all the details or just a select few and watch
to see if he blushes?"
Harry smacked the blond playfully
on his exposed cheek. "I meant my corpse, you scoundrel."
Draco grunted and arched a brow in
amusement, rolling over onto Harry's body, hands caressing his
lover's tanned skin. "I haven't done anything to your corpse. Yet."
"Yet?! What's that supposed to
mean? Are you harboring necrophiliac tendencies, Draco?" Harry
gaped, properly astonished.
"Mmm. I suppose necromancy would
be far more appealing. Dark magic." Draco's face curved into a
wicked grin as he sat back on his heels, hands moving over Harry's
body in mystical patterns.
Brilliant green eyes regarded him
intently, curiosity and amusement reflected therein. "Do you believe
in that?"
"Raising the dead?" Draco shrugged
as he lay bonelessly against the covers and closed his eyes.
Harry cleared his throat, breath
catching with stifled emotion. "No . . . magic."
"I don't know." Draco flashed a
crooked grin as his eyes opened again, surprisingly intense despite
his lazy demeanor. "But I know that to spend my life with you, I
would risk anything, even if it meant losing my soul." Harry blushed
at the husky tenor of Draco's voice as his lover then continued
softly, "Verweile doch. Du bist so schön. Dann magst du mich in
Fesseln schlagen, Dann will ich gern zugrunde gehn."
The moment hung between them until
Harry blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. "Pardon?"
Draco rolled his eyes before
closing them once more, a much abused martyr for culture's sake. "I
was quoting Goethe, you uncultured sot."
Harry frowned, shifting on the bed
to stretch out beside the blond, propped up on his side as he looked
down at Draco. "What does it mean?"
One blue eye opened lazily, a
serene smile appearing as he lifted his hand, fingers trailing down
the side of Harry's face. "Stay. You are
so fair. Then may you clap me into shackles; then will I gladly go
to the ground."
"Oh." Harry exhaled slowly. "I
didn't realize that German could be that romantic."
Draco dropped his hand with a
sigh, nearly pouting. "It's not romantic, Potter. It's desperate.
Faust is being seduced by the devil."
"Oh." Harry eyed him suspiciously.
"Are you equating me with the devil?"
Draco lunged forward, knocking
Harry off balance and pressing the heavier man back against the
sheets. "You are my captor, Harry." Harry snorted at this and
struggled against Draco's grip on his wrists, watching as the blond
lowered his head, tongue tracing patterns on the bare skin of
Harry's chest. "I would allow you to suck my soul dry. . ." Harry
drew a breath as Draco sucked on the sensitive nub of flesh ". .
.even if only to imbue you with some semblance of culture." An
affectionate nip on the abused nipple made Harry cry out, glaring
reproachfully as Draco grinned down at him, the platinum fall of
hair looking silver in the haze of dawn. "Good God, Harry, you went
to university."
"I studied." Harry said
defensively.
"Why do I have a feeling you
studied the cricket matches and fencing more often than you studied
French?" Draco released Harry's hands, raking his fingers back
through the silvery locks.
"I know my French," Harry replied
heatedly, becoming riled at Draco's condescension.
"En guarde and touché do not count
as understanding the exquisite beauty of the French language," The
elegant male drawled.
"I never could see any beauty in
French. It's so inarticulate and vague compared with English." Harry
countered.
Draco's head tilted slightly to
the side, more in disbelief than in actual consideration for Harry's
opinion. "French is a language for thinking, Harry."
"Latin is a language for thinking.
And for poetry."
"Oh? Well, well. You surprise me,
Harry. Which of the Roman poets strikes your fancy?"
Harry sunk into the bedsheets,
keeping his face to the side as he spoke in barely audible tones. "I
was always struck by Catullus' concept of love . . . as a contract.
Not marriage, but love itself as a contract between two individuals.
'aeternum hoc sanctae foedus amicitiae.' It's so spiritual. . .
reverent." Harry lifted his eyes to meet Draco's judgmental gaze.
"And boring," the blond said. "The
Romans thought of everything as a proposition. 'This eternal compact
of hallowed friendship' indeed." Draco snickered, drawing the sheet
across his body in the ancient fashion. "We shall fornicate at
precisely this hour. I've got to be in the Senate to hail Caeser
before my nightly scheduled orgy."
As much as Harry admired how the
toga flattered his lover, he did not appreciate his attempt at
erudition being so cruelly mocked. Harry did not consider himself to
be a gentlemen of the world, as he had not traveled to the
Continent, but neither did he consider himself an uncultured sot, as
Draco had worded it earlier. "Must you offend everything spiritual
so freely?" he said, pinching Draco's backside in a physical
revenge.
To his chagrin the blond squirmed
into his touch, the smirk on his face dismissing his lover's words.
"Is it not intentional? These are the Romans, Harry."
"There are plenty of other
spiritualists and romantics. Not all of them are as literal minded
as you."
"You think poets do not live for
double entendre and innuendo? Just look at John Donne."
Harry dismissed the notion
immediately, his brow furrowed. "A falsehood, I declare. He was one
of the great spiritualists of the Enlightenment."
"And very, very erotic." Draco
said, letting the sheet slip off his torso, revealing more of the
ivory skin that inflamed Harry's senses.
Green eyes followed the progress
of the sheet from Draco's collar to his thigh, his voice sounding
husky to his own ears. "I don't believe you."
"Then I must prove myself, mustn't
I?" Draco said with a grin. "Allow me to educate you," he purred,
moving on top of Harry. Leaning down, he traced his pupil's
forehead and temples with his mouth, depositing soft, wet, kisses.
~_~_~
A great deal of time later, Draco
lay his head against Harry's sweat drenched skin and kissed Harry's
shoulder between gasping breaths, content to lay within his lover as
they recovered together. He forced himself to draw slow, deep
breaths as he leaned back to study Harry's countenance, his hand
lifting to brush damp locks of hair from his forehead, his thumb
brushing lovingly against the lightning bolt shaped scar.
Harry opened his eyes slowly, acutely aware of Draco's touch. Every
caress, every breath, every movement seemed to encompass his entire
world as his body and mind attempted to reconcile themselves with
each other, to reconcile himself. Draco had the remarkable ability
to shock his senses with things foreign. Losing in a billiards
game—that had been foreign. Being rivaled in his attentions to Ginny
was foreign. Romantic innuendo directed at him was foreign. Being
insulted in polite company was foreign. Erotic exploration of
another male's body was foreign. And, now, being made acutely aware
of how sensual spiritual poetry could be. Not for the first time he
marveled at the way Draco had affected him so greatly in the past
two weeks of constant contact, and wondered whether he and Draco
would be able to do as Sirius and Remus had done, and become devoted
companions to one another for years without recess.
A pleasurable stroking behind his
ears made him blink and his gaze focused, flickering upwards to see
Draco smiling at him, a question in the blue eyes.
He smiled back, his voice husky
with emotion as he spoke. "You know, I studied that poem at
university."
Draco shifted beside him, his skin
creating friction as it rubbed against his own. "Did your professor
demonstrate this particular interpretation in class?"
Harry laughed, his hands sliding
down the blond's shoulders in a lingering caress. "I can't say I've
ever heard Donne interpreted so . . ." Without his wanting it, he
was becoming aroused again. Was this affliction ever to be
conquered? Would he ever be able to think of Draco as anything but a
sexual being? He changed what he was going to say mid-sentence. ". .
.was the poem really intended in that way? Or are you just making it
sexual?"
Draco kissed his lips softly,
tracing his cheek in a purely affectionate and indulgent manner.
"Harry, I recited the text verbatim." His usual smirk returned to
grace his features as Harry eyed him suspiciously. "Well . . . using
action in place of imagination illustrates the sexual nature of the
text perhaps a little more clearly."
"Perhaps . . . a very little."
Harry admitted grudgingly, "or perhaps I was right and you have this
urge to defile all that is holy. I always thought that poem to be
about a man's struggle between earthly love for his lover and
spiritual love for his god."
"I don't consider it a defilement
to see how the practical relates to the spiritual. Not everything is
as ideal as the poet may have you think. You should know that more
than anyone, Harry." Soft fingers stroked his cheek, the blue eyes
looking intense even if they were accompanied with a jocular smirk.
"If our relationship were ideal . . . perhaps one of us would be
female."
Reality was slowly invading Harry
and Draco's perfect world. Life existed outside of Malfoy Manor, and
more importantly, the world outside labeled them as abnormal.
Sodomites. Harry responded with a smile, trying to keep his tone
light and teasing in an attempt to keep the seriousness away. "You
are more feminine than I am. Think of all the lovely muslin gowns
you could have."
Draco eyed Harry, aware of the
fine line they walked between despair and resolve. Indulging the
other man, he raised a brow in challenge. "Hrm. I'll decline as I
don't wish to relive my days at Mother Clapp's." The blond stretched
in a sinfully erotic manner, leering at his lover. "And besides that
. . . men's clothing is far easier and more fun to remove. There are
a number of uses for that stock I've yet to show you."
"There's no time yet before I
leave?" Harry asked, feeling his pulse speed up at the images
conjured by the remark. Draco was so very talented with words.
"Mmm. Perhaps we have time for a
lesson or two. If that's the only thing you wish to enjoy this last
morning in paradise." Draco leaned back against the bed with a sulky
pout. "Before you're off to face the nine circles of hell known as
the Weasleys."
Harry frowned, his always
expressive eyes revealing his hurt at the slight. "Hermione is a
Weasley now. Can't you speak of them for five minutes without being
insulting? They're honest, decent people, Draco Malfoy."
Draco, having been so in tune with
Harry's emotions and thoughts for the past two weeks, immediately
directed the conversation in a more neutral direction. "At least I
have God to thank that Hermione settled down with Ron. I had a
horrifying dream in which she had married the older son, Percival,
and had a brood of know-it-all redheaded children."
Harry had to smile at that,
allowing a laugh to escape him. "Percy? Oh lord. I don't think he
could handle someone like Hermione, despite the similarities in
temperament when it comes to the pursuit of knowledge. I believe
he's attached to a Miss Clearwater of Bath."
Draco sat up, brushing
sweat-dampened locks of hair out of his face. "Clearwater? I believe
I know the family. Distantly connected of course. Soft-spoken girl,
but level headed. I daresay she'd not lead him astray."
"No, I doubt she would." Harry
said quietly, enjoying the sight of his normally composed lover
sweaty and tousled.
"And as far as connections go, a
fine match," Draco continued lazily. "The Weasleys are moving up in
society, thanks to their offspring. Hopes usually rest on daughters
to marry well, not the sons. But I suppose in Miss Weasley's case
one cannot really ask for much."
Harry's chivalrous nature showed
itself as his shoulders squared, conveying the impression of
strength that Draco knew was more than skin deep. "You are not
entitled to speak so harshly of Miss Weasley, Malfoy," Harry said,
his voice low. "You made half the party think you were madly in love
with her during your stay at Hogwarts. And I, for one, have not
forgiven you." Green eyes shone with fierce protectiveness as he
held Draco's gaze. To Harry's immense surprise, and respect, Draco
did not back down, but returned the accusation.
"I did her a favor and opened her
eyes, Potter," he said, his voice dripping with formal
condescension. "She is tolerable, I suppose. But unless she allows
herself to become a person, and not a commodity, she will never be
handsome enough to tempt any man."
"Ginny has her own charms, Draco,"
Harry responded defensively. "Someday a man will surely be able to
see that and give her what she wants."
His exclamation was met with
silence, the other male studying him quietly. At length, Draco's
eyes met his, piercing his soul as he spoke. His voice was carefully
neutral, but spoken with hesitation. "So far, Harry, the only man
that is able to do as you ask . . . is you. Are you willing to trade
her happiness for yours?"
~_~_~
Their farewells were brief. Harry
took his leave of Lady Narcissa and Miss Parkinson, noting the smug
satisfaction in their eyes as they wished him a good journey. They
excused themselves quickly, retreating inside on the pretext that
Miss Parkinson's delicate health was threatened by the summer
breeze.
But even without female prying
eyes, public etiquette and inherent caution made both of them wary.
At last Draco clapped Harry on the shoulder. "We shan't meet again
for quite a few months, Potter," he said casually. The desperate
blue eyes spoke volumes, his voice strained. "You will write to me,
I pray."
Harry felt the touch burn even
through the layers of clothing, Draco's thumb tracing small circles.
He took a deep breath, the corners of his mouth twitching in a half
smile. "I promise. I'll be at the Burrow until the end of September.
Then I shall return home, to Godric's Hollow." He stepped away from
Draco's hand, trembling slightly, and climbed into the carriage.
Once Harry had seated himself,
their eyes met through the lowered window, trying to communicate
everything that had been left unvoiced.
"Bon voyage, Harry." Draco said
softly.
Harry said nothing, the space
between them growing ever wider. Draco nodded once, in
understanding, and ordered the coachman to drive on. Harry leaned
back against the leather seat, sighing heavily as the horses carried
him from the great estate. A lone figure stood stoically by the
gate. Unwilling to watch his lover disappear completely from sight,
Harry turned his face away, closing his eyes.
Memories spun through his mind as
he let it wander, inevitably, to thoughts of Draco Malfoy. The blond
coolly eyeing him from across the room at Hogwarts, gazing at him
challengingly across the billiards room, looking down on him as
Harry lay writhing with pleasure. Draco's face was an ever changing
living mask of expression. A variety of emotions could be indicated
with only the arch of a brow, a curl of his lips. There was one
constant, no matter what the situation: blue eyes regarding him with
such intensity as to make him breathless, weak, feeling unworthy of
the adoration they revealed.
He would miss that.
He would also miss waking up to
feel Draco's eyes upon him, and the simple pleasure of flesh against
flesh in an intimate setting. Not having been touched often as a
child, or at any point in his life, Harry had been almost shocked to
discover how much he enjoyed Draco's touch. Thoughts of touching
Ginny or any other girl had never crossed his mind. During the past
two weeks he'd learned to indulge his long-suppressed need for human
contact. Months without that solace lay dauntingly on the horizon.
And there was Ginny. Draco had
alluded to her earlier and Harry had, naturally, jumped to her
defense as he was trained to do. Even if he could not bear to give
Miss Weasley the life that she deserved, it was his responsibility,
as much as it was Ron's or any of her family's, to see that she was
happily, and advantageously, married. He only hoped that Ginny would
be easily persuaded to see other suitors. Although the way she
responded to Draco's flattery, and the flattery of the militia
officer, Creevey, seemed to indicate she might be amenable.
However, Harry could not justify
being absent any longer. He had commitments to the Weasleys, and to
Sirius and Remus, that required his attention. Ever since he had
left university he had taken a portion of the management of Godric's
Hollow upon his shoulders, since his godfather had no taste for
scientific farming, and although his steward Dobby was a capable
man, good to Harry's tenants, he was nearing the age of retirement
and inclined to be timid. Harry did not intend to shirk his
responsibilities as a landowner, and had no doubt that when he
returned home there would be many matters requiring his attention.
The months ahead would be both busy, and empty, and he knew the
hardest part would not be being without Draco, but being without
himself. He was Harry Potter—the burden, the friend, the godson, and
the master. Until Draco had shown him how things could be, he had
hardly known that his life was a shadow, a façade. Not until he was
with Draco behind closed doors would he once again be able to drop
the mask.
